


The Wrong Witter

by glacis



Category: Dawson's Creek
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-27
Updated: 2010-01-27
Packaged: 2017-10-06 17:52:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/56283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glacis/pseuds/glacis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gretchen isn't the only one to make a discovery at Nick's party.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Wrong Witter

The Wrong Witter, a Dawson's Creek vignette by Sue Castle. Rated NC17, no copyright infringement intended. Spoilers for and set within the episode broadcast 01/10/01.

 

He couldn't believe it. Gretchen had given this up for ... Dawson? Didn't add up. Couldn't add up.

Pacey looked across the steam rising from the bubbling water between himself and Nick Taylor. Funny, smart, attractive, adult Nick Taylor. What on earth could Gretchen get from Dawson that she couldn't get from Nick? The mind boggled.

Perhaps it was time little brother steered big sister in the right direction. All it would take was a word of encouragement in the right quarter from him, and a few stolen moments of passion from Nick, to get her headed the right way again. Trying not to smirk too widely, he leaned forward, leaning his elbows on his knees, watching Nick watch Gretchen.

"What she really needs is a guy like you. Back in her life." He looked as sincere as possible. Under the circumstances, it wasn't a stretch. Given the options, namely Dawson, which creeped him out in ways he couldn't even articulate, it was a real pleasure.

Nick looked back at him, bright blue eyes disconcertingly like Dawson's as they lit up. Pacey shook off the distracting thought and focused on the mission.

Get Gretchen and Nick back together.

The party that night would just be the beginning. He smiled at Nick. Nick grinned back.

 

Four hours, three beers, two girls flirting with him and one hundred eighty degree attitude adjustment later, Pacey was ready to dunk Nick in the nearest keg and hold him there until his feeble struggles for life died away to nothingness. He glared over his shoulder, pulling Gretchen behind him out of the noise of the house into the relative quiet of the yard.

"Your ex-boyfriend puts the A in hole!" he growled. He'd told Nick that there was someone special waiting for him, and what had been Nick's reaction? Doesn't matter since she'll never find out, here's the key, don't forget the condom. He was ready to punch something. Preferably Nick.

Gretchen was actually defending the jerk. "The things you liked about him are the things I still do." Even after ...

Even after. Yeah.

She'd told Dawson before she'd told him. About the baby. About losing the baby.

Nick didn't know.

Pacey was torn. He wanted to kill Nick. Wanted to hold Gretchen. Wanted to hurt anything and anyone who'd ever hurt her, including himself, at that moment, for forcing it out of her. Didn't have a single clue in the wide world what the heck he was supposed to do next.

So he took the beer Nick handed him and stared, silent, feeling stupid and useless, as Gretchen walked away. Watched from a distance, struggling to understand, as she took Nick's hand and led him upstairs. Where Pacey knew the condoms were in the cigar box, because Nick had told him, a thousand years and an hour ago when Nick had blithely assumed that Pacey was just like Nick and wouldn't think twice about cheating on the woman whose trust he held along with her heart.

He didn't know whether to throw up, punch the wall, drink enough beer to drown any self-respecting introspective thought, or run away. So he did none of the above.

He sat on the stoop until it was light enough to see what he was doing then he fixed Gretchen's car. Banging on the carburetor wasn't quite as satisfactory as punching Nick's face in, but it was less likely to get himself arrested, not to mention trying to explain the unexplainable to a man who simply didn't have the moral character to comprehend his objections.

Besides, if he went up to the room with the key on the end of the green rabbit foot, he might see Gretchen naked. With Nick.

Not a good thing.

She came out the door looking well rested and younger than she had since she'd come home from college. He didn't know what to say to her. How was your night? would lead either to unacceptable offense or equally unacceptable details. He gestured to the truck and brought her up to speed on his progress. Then she floored him.

"Nothing happened."

Because of Pacey. Because he respected her, as he should, and she finally got it. Finally understood that she deserved that respect, and that she deserved to be with someone who got it, too. Not necessarily Dawson, he hadn't said that, although she was right when she said he'd been thinking it. She could do a lot worse.

Heck, she had. He glared up at the quiet house as she drove away. He'd meet her later at home. But first, he had some clarification to make to one Nick Taylor.

Maybe all his aggression hadn't been taken out on the carburetor, after all. Words tumbled around his mind all the way through the first floor rooms, up the stairs, to Nick's door. He raised his hand to pound on it but it swung open at the first touch of his knuckles.

Nick was sprawled on the bed. Clothes were lying in a heap at the foot of the bed and he was barely covered in a pair of boxers that had twisted up around his waist. His hair was falling in his face. He looked ridiculously innocent. Pacey realized he was staring as if hypnotized at Nick's mouth and wrenched his gaze away, glancing wildly around the room.

Burnt incense sticks. Muted shades on the lamps. Guttered stubs of candles over every imaginable -- and a few improbable -- surfaces. The epitome of the frat seduction pit in all its morning-after glory. Innocent, in a pig's eye.

Pacey was on his knees on the bed next to Nick's hip with both hands on the bastard's shoulders before he was really aware of moving. All the adrenaline, all the anger he hadn't been able to spend during his marathon session of mechanical tinkering, all the frustration that he could have misjudged Nick so badly and the deep-rooted fear that perhaps he hadn't, that perhaps Nick saw him clearly and they really were very much alike, combined in an explosive mixture. His face was an inch from Nick's and he was snarling like an animal at him, too pissed off to form a single coherent word.

"Gretchen?" Nick muttered incredulously, still more than half asleep. One hand came up from the bedspread and landed, unerringly, directly between Pacey's legs, tracing the length of his penis in one firm stroke.

Pacey froze. Well, most of him froze. The part under expert if unexpected manual examination at the moment veered wildly from previous experience and, contrary to expectation, perked up to take an interest in the proceedings.

"Wrong Witter," Nick murmured, sounding relaxed and happy and horny. Pacey tried to nod. Tried to say something. The only sound he could force out was a weird gurgle about two octaves lower than his normal speaking voice. "Hi, Dougie," Nick growled from the general vicinity of Pacey's waistband. Both the timbre and the location continued to lower. Pacey shivered.

Dougie?

"Merry Christmas," Nick whispered in the half-second before he unzipped Pacey's fly and proved that the slit in the front of a young man's boxers was good for more than air-drying.

Pacey nearly swallowed his tongue. Dougie? Christmas? Then any attempt at thought, rational or otherwise, fled his mind as Nick proved he was equally adept at driving female **and** male Witters completely out of their wits. The world tilted and Pacey was somehow flat on his back with Nick crouched between thighs that had opened all on their own. Nick's hands were doing incredible and incredibly bizarre things to his ass at the exact same time that Nick's mouth was doing things nobody'd ever even considered doing to his dick.

He really should punch him, Pacey decided muzzily. That was what he had come up there to do, and just because Nick was showing an unreal ability to drain his brains from the end of his dick was no reason for Pacey to alter his plans.

Except for the fact that he couldn't get his fingers untangled from their death grip on the sheets. There was also the indisputable fact that if he punched Nick then Nick would stop doing what he was doing with his tongue to the head of Pacey's dick and if Nick stopped before Pacey came Pacey would die of a heart attack brought about by extreme frustration. That was a good reason not to punch him.

That was an even better reason to lie in the middle of Nick's bed and howl like a dog at the moon as he had the single hardest orgasm of his young life while everything above his navel went into shock.

Happy little slurping sounds made the soundtrack to the most surreal experience of his life as Nick reached up, past him, to the cigar box. Mind busily being reminded by his body of everything he'd been missing since he started going out with a determinedly virgin, well, virgin, Pacey was unprepared for the strong hands lifting his knees up to his shoulders. His thighs spreading even further, and who'd've thought he was that flexible? Or the fingers that left him just to be replaced by something longer, thicker, heavier and hotter than any two fingers, no matter how clever they'd been.

"Holy shit!" The juxtaposition of those two words in that phrase had never struck him as quite so appropriate as it did the very first time he got fucked. It felt like Nick was cramming a two by four into a post hole dug for a one by one.

Jack actually wanted to do this? For real?

Stray thoughts were pinging through his brain like sparks shooting off a campfire, and making about as much sense. Nick's mouth was working at the base of his neck now, and those hands had left his knees and were clamped onto his butt, holding him fast as Nick bucked into him. Pacey couldn't seem to stop wondering why on Earth Jack would actually want to do this when his legs shifted down and locked around Nick's waist, easing the strain. Nick groaned against him, and Pacey shivered.

The groan had felt pretty good.

Not concentrating on the fact that he was pinned under a determined frat boy who was fucking his brains out actually helped him relax, and once he did, Pacey came to a startling conclusion.

It didn't hurt as much. Burned a little bit. Actually felt kind of good. Then Nick arched his back and thrust into him at a different angle. Nick's eyes were closed and his face had an expression as if he was in pain.

Fireworks attached to something inside him that Nick was banging up against went off, and Pacey came very close to screaming. Holy shit, indeed.

If that happened every time a guy got fucked, no damned wonder Jack was up for it.

Pacey looked down. He was pretty up for it himself. Concentrating hard, which was difficult with his world rocking every time Nick hit the fireworks switch, Pacey managed to unwind a hand from the sheets and wrap it around his dick, awake and humming along for the ride. He didn't even have to jack himself. All he did was hold on and let Nick make the moves.

Just like riding a bike. While being ridden. Nothing like a bike.

Well aware that he was making no sense, but still impressed that his mind could form words when his tongue was barely up to streaming gibberish, Pacey came the second time just as Nick reared back and tried to crawl all the way inside him. Or at least that was what it felt like. His second climax wasn't quite as long as the first one, but it was so intense it nearly turned him inside out. He was still shaking when Nick pulled out.

Ouch. Not particularly pleasant. But not unpleasant enough to negate the effects of two spectacular orgasms or the unveiling of a whole new horizon to his sexuality. Pacey lay against the sheets like a very relaxed beached whale who'd just been thoroughly harpooned, struggling to think over the ramifications of recent events with a brain that felt like boiled bran.

Nick snuggled up beside him and started to snore. Pacey drew back far enough to look down into Nick's face.

Yup. He still looked about five years old. An incredibly debauched five year old, which freaked Pacey out almost as much as the fact that he'd just had sex with his sister's ex-boyfriend. For a guy who was currently pledged body, soul and heart to his best friend's ex-girlfriend, this was a hard pill to swallow. On so many levels.

Dragging himself as quietly and carefully as possible, Pacey crept out of Nick's bed, unwound his pants from his left shoe, stuffed his right leg back into them, searched out and put back on his right shoe, and snuck down the stairs. Slowly. In a rather crab-like manner due to unaccustomed burn from pulled muscles in unusual places.

Balancing carefully, he climbed into the car, inserted a CD at random into the player, and began the long drive home. Sitting lightly.

He had a lot to think about. What he was going to say to Joey. What he wasn't going to say to Gretchen. What he couldn't even think about around Doug. How he was going to appease his conscience for cheating on Joey, even if it was more like an accidental impalement by a runaway train. Trying, for some reason that was too fuzzy to understand and too frightening to examine closely, not to think about Dawson.

Of course, all he **could** think about ... was Dawson.

It was a very long ride home.

 end


End file.
